Mrs Stone Teases

Okey-dokey, here's my Nude Day contest entry.

It's a theme I've been messing with for a few weeks after finding a thread on Lit dealing with the attraction of married ladies displaying their wedding rings in a variety of inappropriate scenarios.

I steered away from Loving Wives with this one because I agree with some of the comments made by the more vociferous leavers of public comments in that category. This piece focuses on Mrs Stone's wedding rings, and as such, I feel it belongs in Fetish.

Although the competition highlights Nude Day, I don't refer to the day specifically. I do however make something about Mrs Stone being naked.

I hope you get some pleasure from this submission, and that you'll let me know in the form of feedback, either in PM, email, or in public comments below. Even if you didn't like the story you can let me know what I did wrong by the same means.

Okay, I'll close now and let you get on with it.

Thanks for reading.

GA -- Hoi An, Vietnam -- 6th of July 2014.

It was a conversation David Glanfield didn't relish, knowing it would probably be awkward and embarrassing. But, having decided it was his problem, and as difficult as it might be, he felt it his duty to tackle the issue. It did occur to him that Human Resources should really deal with it -- in fact company protocols were quite clear, however, since being newly promoted and with it still being early days, in an attempt to foster a relationship with his team and gain their trust, David thought he'd keep this one off any official records.

All it would take was a five or ten minute chat. David would be the perfect manager, empathetic but firm.

Or at least that's what he thought.

The knock came at two in the afternoon. David was in his office, one of the better ones on offer, one with proper walls, a real door and, most coveted of all, a window. He sat behind a solid desk in a decent executive chair -- a sign of his upward mobility within the firm. At twenty-eight years of age, David was proud of how far he'd come in four years -- not smug, just quietly proud. David appreciated his good fortune and took nothing for granted.

His eyes went to the door, the sound taking his attention away from spreadsheets. David saved his computer work and straightened his tie.

"Come in," he called, rising to greet the interviewee.

She shook David's hand as she said, "You sent for me, Mr Glanfield?"

David remembered to smile, it was important for her to feel relaxed.

He nodded and replied. "Yes, Mrs Stone."

With the flat of one hand David indicated a small sofa and two matching chairs. "Please, won't you sit down?" he offered.

The woman paused, throwing David a curious look before closing the door.

"What's this about?" she asked, moving to the sofa.

Nervous now the moment was on him, anxious in her presence due to the delicacy of the subject, David croaked, "Can I get you anything, Mrs Stone?"

He was also affected by the way she moved in the precipitous heels, her poise and bearing confident. David couldn't help but think she was as sexy as hell, especially since Mrs Stone's mode of dress leaned towards the provocative, and which was, after all, the reason for his summons.

David cleared his throat and felt his face warm when, after settling into her seat, Mrs Stone raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Tea, coffee ... Water?" he suggested, flustered at the effect she had, embarrassed that he'd shown it.

"No, thank you, Mr Glanfield," replied Mrs Stone.

She shifted slightly and crossed her legs, twisting at the waist to lay one arm along the back of the settee, the action pulling an already pressurised blouse tight across her generous frontage.

David swallowed heavily when he saw the blouse gape wider to expose even more skin, and the belated notion occurred that HR might have been a wise option after all. Why did he get the feeling he was swimming out of his depth with this one?

David's eyes moved over Mrs Stone. He took in the sight of her legs, the hem of the skirt riding higher than decorum might prefer, Mrs Stone's positioning moulding the fabric to her thighs. He quickly soaked up the detail of her blouse, a silky, button-fronted creation -- off-white with pale blue vertical stripes and a huge winged collar -- the top three buttons unfastened. David knew Mrs Stone was up there in her early forties, her maturity and immaculate appearance combining in a way that had always appealed to David.

His quick appraisal moved up, away from the deep crease of Mrs Stone's cleavage to her face where he was surprised by a pair of amused blue eyes and a red-lipped smirk.

Seeing her looking back at him made David blink, certainty she divined his anxiety and understood why flustering him further.

Movement caught his eye: Mrs Stone's fingers drumming a silent beat against the settee, the rings on the third finger of her left hand glinting.

The confident attitude of a very self-aware married woman sent a frisson of arousal through David, his cock thickening when an image of Mrs Stone dressed for sex flashed across his mind's eye. He had a notion Mrs Stone would be very vocal in bed, he could just imagine her telling a lover just how she wanted it.

Assuming the married lady took a lover that is. It occurred to him that despite outward appearances -- the skirts, the shoes, the tight blouses and what he suspected were stockings under the skirts -- Mrs Stone might be entirely faithful to her husband.

"Are you going to tell me why I'm here?" asked Mrs Stone, breaking David's reverie, the smirk remaining fixed in place.

David sucked in a deep breath and tried for professional detachment.

"Well," he said, failing with the professionalism and avoiding those amused blue eyes. David sat in one of the chairs and bought some time by making sure his trousers weren't all creased at the knees before saying, "It's like this, Mrs Stone..."

He paused and steeled himself and looked directly at the woman's face, doing his best to keep his eyes away from her devastating décolletage.

"Although," he continued, veering from a direct confrontation at the final moment. "I'd like to say here and now that this is completely informal. Nobody else knows about the ... uh ... reason for our little chat ... I mean it's just between you and me. Nothing official."

Mrs Stone shifted in her seat, left hand coming up so the tip of a forefinger rested on her temple. She appraised him with a cool, steady gaze. "Mr Glanfield," she breathed, unblinking. "Just get to the point."

The woman inspected a red fingernail, a lethal-looking talon, flawlessly sculpted -- typical of Mrs Stone's immaculate personal appearance.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, redirecting her attention on David.

He was quick to quash any suggestion of a transgression on her part. David's eyes widened and he fanned his fingers at her, saying hurriedly, "No-no-no." He snorted at the very suggestion. "You haven't done anything wrong at all, Mrs Stone. In fact," he added, hoping to bring her on side with a little praise, "your work has been exemplary."

David winced inside when he heard himself utter those words. He cringed at how stuffy he sounded, so patronising.

"No," he continued, feebly. "You haven't done anything wrong. It ... It's just..."

Just get to the bloody point

, he thought.

She's a mature, intelligent woman, she'll understand

.

David squirmed and wished he was somewhere else. "Well, to be honest there have been a couple of ... comments."

Mrs Stone's head tilted to one side. "Comments?"

"Well, perhaps complaints might be a better word."

This really wasn't going well.

"Complaints?"

A leaden sinker plummeted into the pit of David's stomach when he heard the dangerous note in Mrs Stone's voice.

"But you said I'd done nothing wrong. What do you mean by complaints? Who's complained? What about?"

"Mrs Stone, please." David was getting more and more anxious. "It's nothing to do with your work ... And I really can't divulge any names. It really is nothing to worry about, nothing to cause any concern--"

Mrs Stone sighed and interrupted with, "Then just what is it about, Mr Glanfield?"

"Okay, right, well..." David squirmed again, somehow managing to resist the desire to run a finger around his suddenly too tight collar. "It's about the way you ... uhm ... the way you dress for work, Mrs Stone."

There. It was out. He'd said it.

"What's wrong with the way I dress, Mr Glanfield?" A pause before the woman added an emphatic, "Exactly."

Shit -- how could he put this across?

"Uh, well, in my opinion, nothing."

David closed his eyes when he realised how that might be construed. He wondered if he wasn't setting himself up for a sexual harassment case.

"But," he added, ploughing on, determined to extricate himself from the mire. "There have been one or two mutterings about your ... erm..." He waved a hand in an airy gesture as he struggled for the right phrasing.

"Breasts, Mr Glanfield?" Mrs Stone suggested. She had that amused look on her face again. "Don't tell me," she raised a finger, "Bob Jackson and Marjorie Andrews."

David blinked but said nothing.

"Bob Jackson," Mrs Stone continued, almost spitting the name. "He just can't stand it that he wants to get his hands on me. He hates himself because that weird religious cult he's into sees me as a floozy. He blames me for flaunting my boobs, Mr Glanfield, for tempting him into lustful desires. Oh, he looks at me all right, has a good old stare and gets all hot and bothered and then hates me because I've enticed him."

David gulped in the face of Mrs Stone's forthright assertions.

"And Marjorie Andrews," the woman scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Well, Mr Glanfield, she's just plain, old-fashioned jealous."

Having said her piece Mrs Stone waved a hand in a "whatever" gesture, eyeing David as though expecting a denial.

Truth be told, she was spot on. Strange Bob Jackson and sour-faced Marjorie Andrews had come to him as a unit, both of them simmering with supressed outrage.

The silence lingered, growing louder the longer David sat there bewildered by how his quick, informal chat could have been so abruptly derailed.

Eventually he spluttered, "I can't say, Mrs Stone. Really, I can't. But, since there have been some ... uh ... can I just say

comments

?" He appealed with his eyes. "I just thought I could avoid any ... uhm ... unpleasantness by discussing it with you. See if we can't come to a compromise. All informal. Friendly."

"You said, Mr Glanfield, in your opinion there's nothing wrong with the way I dress."

Shit, I knew that was a stupid comment...

David thought.

"Ah, well, Mrs Stone--" he said.

"Don't

you

approve, Mr Glanfield?" she interrupted.

Mrs Stone sat up, feet flat on the floor, knees together as she examined her own chest.

Her eyes came up again, finding David's stare and locking it with her own.

"Well, Mr Glanfield? I'm waiting."

"Mrs Stone, please, I--"

The woman reclined once more, crossing her legs, her arm lying across the back of the sofa, resuming her casual pose.

David noticed she made no attempt to lower the hem of her skirt or to relieve the straining buttons on her blouse. He sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, eyes closed.

When he opened them again he saw the huge lump of ice on her engagement ring glinting where it was sandwiched between a gold wedding band and a ruby-encrusted eternity ring.

David gawped and vaguely wondered about Mrs Stone's husband again. He thought about what it must be like to have a wife like her. It could be a dream; it could be a nightmare.

Then, as David drifted off into imaginary land again, her voice, low and husky and capable of eliciting the most rigid of erections from him, brought David fully into the present.

"I know men look at me," Mrs Stone murmured, her tone narcotic, her cleavage a magnet for David's eyes. "Some are quite blatant; they just look and make no effort to conceal their interest." The woman shrugged. "Others do it on the sly. I catch them copping an eyeful before they look away." She grinned and rolled her eyes. "But then they take a second look.

"And you know what, Mr Glanfield?"

David gulped and shook his head, captivated by the soft, breathy voice. "No, Mrs Stone," he croaked.

"I don't mind it in the least.

"When men look at me," she added in clarification. "In fact, I enjoy it. I love the attention. Seeing men ogling me, knowing they're looking at my boobs and thinking about all the things they'd like to do ... It makes me feel good, Mr Glanfield."

Mrs Stone uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, hands on the sofa, fingers curled over the edge either side of her thighs.

It was a deliberate provocation, one that had the desired effect of drawing David's eyes to her chest, to where her upper arms pressed the outer flanks of her bosom, pressing the globes together.

Mrs Stone smirked when she saw David's eyes drop to her precipitous cleavage.

"I suppose I'm an exhibitionist. I love it when men look. It makes me feel ... sexy." The woman winked and compounded David's rising panic by adding, "Sometimes it's the ones who stare that really get to me. It's been known for a man to get so worked up by looking that he's just come out and asked if I'm up for it."

Then, pretending to be coy, Mrs Stone fluttered her eyelashes and said, "But I'm a married woman, Mr Glanfield, I couldn't possibly let myself get picked up in such a casual manner...

"Now could I?"

David boggled. "Mrs Stone, really, I--"

"Although," Mrs Stone went on, completely ignoring David's whine. "I have to admit, occasionally, I have been just a

little

naughty."

And, of course, the forefinger and thumb she held half-an-inch apart were on her left hand, those rings, the symbols of wedlock to

Mister

Stone in plain sight.

Then, with David floundering, wondering dimly just what he could do to end it, how he could extract himself from the mire -- and not really wanting to -- Mrs Stone described an indiscretion in great detail.

*

"I chose an especially tiny bikini. It was barely more than two scraps of material: two triangles and some string on top, an insignificant nothing down below. It was so daring, even for me, that when I first walked out to the pool I was trembling. I was so nervous but

so

turned on by the prospect of all those men staring.

"I had hoped my husband would take some notice, perhaps pay some attention, for a change. But he just rolled his eyes and said he was going to the bar when I put it on and showed him in our room.

"It was waiter service by the pool, and the one who served me made it quite obvious he liked what he saw. A couple of cocktails after an early morning flight ... the heat of the afternoon, an indifferent husband; a good-looking, incredibly sexy young man in a tight white tee-shirt...

"I was in a funny mood to start with, but put all those factors together and you have a dangerous lady on your hands, David. There was some to-and-fro between us, a little light-hearted banter in which my gorgeous young waiter left me with no illusions.

"I told him I was married; I even flashed the rings."

Mrs Stone raise her hand to demonstrate.

She sighed and continued. "And, well, you know, one thing led to another." She slid across the sofa and patted the seat next to her.

David, like a stage hypnotist's subject, mindlessly rose from his chair and sat alongside her.

She swivelled towards him, a hand going to his leg.

"That man took me to some kind of storeroom, a linen cupboard or something. He had me out of that bikini and naked in the blink of an eye." Mrs Stone chuckled and rolled her eyes at the recollection. She squeezed David's leg high on his thigh. "His shorts came down almost as fast, Mrs Stone continued, her expression wistful. She sighed again. "God, talk about eager.

"He was big and hard and wanted me down on my knees." Mrs Stone looked into David's eyes. "So do you know what I did, Mr Glanfield?"

David gulped and shook his head, eyes fixed on Mrs Stone's face. "No, Mrs Stone," he breathed.

"I got straight down there and licked that big thing," she said. "That young man was muttering away and groaning. Talk about a fuss!"

"Mrs Stone, please, I..." David looked down at the fingers massaging his thigh. He was hard as iron, could feel his hard-on straining against the confines of his suit trousers.

"What's wrong, Mr Glanfield?" She leaned in and gave David a good look at the rounded inner flanks of her breasts. "Too much information?"

Mrs Stone laughed, her palm sliding over the ridge of David's erection.

"It feels like you'd make a fuss too, Mr Glanfield. Would you like to do that? Would you like me nude and on my knees sucking you?"

"Oh, God, Mrs Stone, yes. Yes I would. You, naked? Oh, Jesus, yes."

"That young waiter plastered my boobs with goo," Mrs Stone lewdly informed the tortured man on the sofa next to her. "That was the first afternoon. I saw him again, of course. He had a dingy little room in the town. I visited him a couple of times. He fucked me silly on an old bed no wider than a plank. You should have heard the springs ... and my yelps."

"Mrs Stone ... Please," David breathed. "You..." He gulped and wiped the back of one hand across his damp forehead. "You shouldn't be saying this to me. It ... uh ... it isn't right. I only called you in for a chat."

"Oh, come on, Mr Glanfield," Mrs Stone murmured. "I've seen you looking." She reached for David's hands, placing them over her breasts. "You've been thinking about my tits, haven't you? You'd like to see me naked, eh?"

"Oh," David mewled.

"Come on," she crooned, covering David's hands with her own, helping him to squeeze her sizeable breasts. "Tell me, Mr Glanfield. You've been looking and thinking about doing all kinds of filthy things to me, haven't you?"

"Shit, yes, okay, Mrs Stone," he replied, teeth clenched.

The woman grinned. "Well, you're a dirty bugger, Mr Glanfield."

Then, to David's astonishment Mrs Stone abruptly rose to her feet. She smoothed her palms over her hips, easing the hemline of her skirt to a more modest level. Next, she adjusted her blouse, tucking the excess into her waistband and thrusting her chest forward.

"Have you got Skype on that machine?" Mrs Stone asked, nudging her chin towards the computer on David's desk.

He blinked and nodded, uttering a strangled and unthinking, "Yes. Why?"

"You know I leave at half-three. It takes me forty-five minutes to get home. My husband isn't due in 'til gone six."

Going to David's desk, his eyes following her, Mrs Stone wrote on a notepad he kept by the phone.

"This is my Skype name," she said, tapping the end of the pen against the sheet of paper. "Look me up and call at half-past four."

Then, Mrs Stone, after smiling and winking at David, who just sat there and gaped, walked to the door, opened it, and strode away along the corridor.

*

It took long minutes for any sense of reality to return. David sat on the sofa for some time, erection slowly subsiding; his mind paradoxically blank yet with the cogs whirring away. In the seconds following Mrs Stone's departure he felt numb, completely unable to process what had just happened.

The fog slowly cleared and he was capable of coherent thought, and the first notion that popped into his mind was to forget the last fifteen minutes of his life had occurred. He could pretend it never happened: Mrs Stone hadn't been in his office; she hadn't said anything and she hadn't done anything. Her hand hadn't been on his leg, squeezing; she most certainly had not stroked his dick through his trousers.